


The Isle of Hope

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: The Isle of Hope [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Series, Sexual Content, Treasure Island Is Fake News, background Silverflint - Freeform, background flinthamilton, cunning disguises, discussions of child death, gratuitous discussions of Greek Mythology, past Silvermadi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 17:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15248637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: When a heartbroken John Silver arrives in Georgia ten years after the events on Skeleton Island, he doesn't quite have it in him to face Flint.  Instead, he concocts a scheme to befriend Thomas, and gets more than he bargained for in exchange.





	The Isle of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for BS Rarepair Week
> 
> So, like it says on the label, this is predominantly a THam/Silver romance. Having said that, there are still equal amounts of very gross Flinthamilton and Silverflint in the background. If you proceed, you consent to this content. Also, something really really awful happens to Madi and Silver in the intervening 10 years. If you're not okay with sadness, do not read on. Having said all that, this definitely has a happy ending because I wrote this and this is [My Production](http://jadedbirch.tumblr.com).
> 
> Anette, you're a beta angel ❤️

On the wrinkled map before him, the name of the settlement comes into focus like a goddamn mockery. _L’Isle Desperence_ , it reads. Silver’s French was never as good as his Spanish, but even he knows _L'Île d'Espérance_ means “Isle of Hope,” whereas “Desperance” is a word evoking a completely different kind of emotion. It isn’t a word - desperance - yet something about it feels right, the longer Silver looks at it.

The Isle of Hope, that also can’t be right. Silver’s been on many islands before, and none of them left him with very much in the way of hope. And this one - the mockery is doubled - this one is the one where Flint has chosen to settle down in retirement. _Isle of Hope_ , Silver thinks with bitterness. It’s ridiculous. It’s not even a real island, merely tracts of land circumscribed by an intricate lattice of rivers. Skidaway River to the East, or the one Silver is currently skidding away upon, and the equally unappealing in name Herb River to the West. And in the middle, a marker proclaiming the territory as Wormsloe.

 _Wormsloe_ , Silver thinks as he disembarks. He had come on a barge with the saplings of the mulberry trees. Wormsloe, yes, a fit name for a place where he plans to bury himself like a worm, burrow into the earth and lie in wait for the right boot to stomp him out.

There was another outbreak of yellow fever in Savannah. Silver curses Flint for having settled so close to there, so close to _that_ _place_. Why, even Wormsloe itself is owned by the Oglethorpes. It is unthinkable that he should find them _here_ of all places. The two of them: the mortal remains of his captain and the resurrected body of Thomas Hamilton. Two spectres made flesh to haunt the Isle of Hope.

It’s been close to ten years since Silver has last seen him, but the memory of his face is forever imprinted upon his heart, a tattoo rendered in invisible ink. He lies awake at night playing a game in which the only rule is to try and imagine Flint as he is now. Has he shaved his beard? Has he grown out his hair? Does he still wear tall boots and long coats? Silver has a difficult time imagining those details, but he can still see his eyes - still vivid green like the epitome of spring. His chest would still be wide. His back would still be proud and strong. _Please God_. Silver cannot imagine his captain bowed and crippled by age or disease. He must be sturdy and timeless, like an ancient baobab, with his branches spread out so that Silver can die in his shade. He is ready.

He isn’t ready.

He had thought that life and time had rendered upon him the final blow, that he would surely crumble beneath the weight of it, never to recover. But the worm inside of Silver, the thing that burrowed deep and thrived on the moisture of the dirt, the worm survived. His marriage could not survive that blow, but Silver hadn’t died. And if that particular pain didn’t kill him, then he could face the thing he feared slightly less than _that_. He can face Flint, he can finally tell him the truth, the “desperance” of it.

 _I love you_ , Silver thinks. _Let me tell you and then let me die._

***

Lord Thomas Hamilton has never had to work so hard in his life to have his opinions heard, which is saying quite a bit, all things considered.

“Your esteemed parents do not pay me nearly enough to put up with this kind of hullabaloo,” he says as he erases the chalk from the board. “I have half a mind to cook and eat you lot for my supper, which would feed me the rest of winter without needing to rely on the paltry compensation afforded by your nearest and dearest.”

The children laugh but it is a nervous laughter. There is something about their teacher they never quite put a finger on, a distinct possibility that there is a grain of truth in his every utterance. Something about the way he pins you with his eye that makes goosebumps run all the way up to your ears. And then of course there’s his friend Mr. Barlow, and if Thomas doesn’t personally eat you, Mr. Barlow most definitely will.

“You are all a bunch of rascals, but this once you get to go home unscathed. But if you do not do your reading for tomorrow, I shall be very very cross with you.” Thomas slaps his hands together, dislodging a cloud of chalk dust. They are good kids, for the most part. Certainly no more disrespectful than he was when he was their age. He wonders if they are too young for Homer. He’s certain James would agree there is no such thing as too young for Homer.

Most of the kids are old enough to walk home by themselves, but some still have chaperones drop by now and then to pick them up. Thomas enjoys the doe-eyed nannies in particular; they smile sweetly at him, and leave an occasional fruit basket for his troubles. He likes to think it is because he gives off the air of a man to whom a woman can entrust her fruits and not because he still has the whiff of the fallen aristocracy about him. He should have changed his name too, he supposes, but then they would have taken everything from him, his name was really all he had left. It was a good name: a forgotten name, a forgettable name. Thomas likes to think he has a forgettable appearance to go with his perfectly unmemorable name; he needs to be completely unremarkable, if only to balance out James. Nothing about James is forgettable. Thomas knows this because he spent ten years remembering everything he’d ever known about the man, each eyelash and freckle, so that when he finally saw him at the plantation, no matter how improbable it had seemed, he didn’t hesitate one bit before wrapping him back into his embrace, where he belonged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas notices one of his students, picking idly at his hangnail as he sits on top of his desk.

“Mr. Hawkins? Is there something else you require?” Thomas asks.

“I’m supposed to wait for my uncle to pick me up today,” the boy says. Something about the way the kid says “uncle” doesn’t sit particularly as avuncular with Thomas.

“Your uncle?” he repeats. That’s when he hears the noise outside, a strange drag-stomp approaching over the boards of the porch. And then, a man appears. Well, for all intents and purposes he is a man, but when Thomas looks at him, he gets a strange feeling as if he were looking at a painting, carefully rendered, yet strangely empty. The picture the man paints is peculiar: his hair is long and wild, his brow heavy and partially obscured by an old tricorn, his beard is untrimmed and peppered with gray, and his coat bears the telltale signs of sea salt that marks him as a mariner.

“A thousand pardons,” the empty man says, and Thomas’ eyes travel down towards the source of that odd drag-stomp. The man holds a crutch and is lacking a foot. Indeed, he appears to be missing the whole leg under his left knee, where his trouser leg hangs loosely folded up. “I didn’t mean to delay you with picking up Jimmy. You must be the teacher, eh?” His smile is as bright as the sun but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry, they didn’t tell me your name at the homestead.”

“And you are…?”

“It’s Thomas!” Jim Hawkins provides with an eye roll, as if it was the most obvious of names. It’s Thomas, just stupid old Thomas, Doubting Thomas even. And he does, he has his doubts.

“Where are my manners?” the empty man says and takes another drag-stomp in Thomas’ direction. He removes his hat, shoving it under his armpit, and stretches out his hand and Thomas notices it easily dwarves his own as he shakes it, which is odd because the man is significantly shorter than he is. “Yanis Argyros,” the man says, “at your service.”

“I did not know the Hawkinses had kin in Greece,” Thomas says.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Greece myself,” the newcomer claims. “Thought about changing my name to make it sound more local several times, but we are a proud race, Sir, and not all of us can marry a Hawkins!” He laughs, teeth flashing like lightning.

It is a very memorable name, Thomas thinks, to go with a very memorable appearance.

“Come on, Jimbo!” the man says with a short whistle. “Time to get you home.”

“You seem like a man of the sea,” Thomas says quickly before the man has a chance to slip away and disappear like a phantom. Argyros, or whoever he is, pauses in the doorway, his shadow half inside the schoolhouse.

“Aye, you could say that,” he states carefully. “No more and no less than any other man from my village.”

“Fishermen?”

Argyros inclines his head in agreement, as if Thomas’ suggestion suits him just fine.

“What do you fish?”

“Shark, mostly.” His grin is feral and he winks at the Hawkins boy who himself stares at the man utterly mesmerized. “They’re highly valued for their fins in some parts of the world.”

“That’s fascinating,” Thomas says, forcing himself to look anywhere but the empty space where this man’s left leg should be.

“Is that how you lost your leg, Uncle Yanis?” Jim Hawkins says with the look of a boy who’s clearly up to no good. “Did a shark bite it off?”

“Mr. Hawkins!” Thomas can’t help but snap at the boy.

Argyros ruffles the boy’s hair, seemingly unphased. “If you’re itching for some tales of the sea, Mr. Teacher, I’d be happy to share them with you over a pint of ale.”

“Tomorrow night, perhaps?” Thomas should really bite off his own tongue. “At the Jolly Hive on Main?”

“I’ll be happy to escort you there once classes let out,” Argyros says as he tips his fingers to his forelock of wild curls, still dark despite being liberally peppered with gray, just like his beard.

***

“You said you’d give me the other shilling after class!” the boys scowls.

“I did, didn’t I?” Silver isn’t particularly annoyed, it’s just that he needs to pace himself if this - whatever this is - is to happen. He should've started his bidding at a halfpence. “But now I need you to be a good boy and play along tomorrow too.”

“I shan’t unless you pay up,” the boy says with a pout, crossing his spindly arms.

“You think I was making it up about the sharks, boy? You don’t wanna cross me, you hear, lest I toss you to them myself.”

“You’re welching on your promise. You gave me your word!”

The last thing Silver needs is to have his character impugned by some ten year old. “Here’s your bloody shilling, you little shit, now get the fuck out of here. And be sure to act lovingly to me when I come to pick you up tomorrow!” he adds as the kid scampers off in the direction of his home.

“This is how far I’ve fallen, Captain,” Silver says to the empty summer air. “I’m resorting to bribing small children just for a chance at talking to your… _Thomas_.”

 _And why?_ Flint’s voice taunts inside his head.

“Because I’m too afraid to talk to you.”

As long as he's playing the imagining game in his own head, anything is possible. Even forgiveness, even reciprocity. Once the words are out in the real world, it’ll all be over.

***

Thomas is pouring tea into James’ cup when a hand grabs his wrist.

“Easy now.” James’ voice is an amused purr. “You won’t want all that hot water in my lap, you might still have use of it.” The cup and the saucer are overflowing, Thomas is startled to discover.

“Sorry,” he mutters as a flush creeps up his neck. “Sorry, I’m…”

James’ hand slides up his forearm in a soothing gesture. “Somewhere else entirely? Yes, I could sense it all night. What’s been on your mind, love?”

The towel in Thomas’ hand is dripping all over the floor, smearing tea around the table in a helpless attempt at containing the evidence of his fluster. He looks down at James, all concerned eyes and soft smiles, and it’s as if James is slipping through his hands too, like droplets of water.

“It’s nothing of import,” he says at last. “Just trying to think of a way to hold these kids’ attention in class.” It’s not the truth, but it is believable, which is more than the truth would be. Or at least what Thomas suspects to be the truth. He drops the towel to the table and wipes his wet hands on his trousers. “Let’s go to bed?”

“Isn’t it a bit early for bed… _Oh_.”

Thomas’ hand scoops up the nape of James’ neck, lips pressing warmly against the seam of his mouth. Somewhere along the way they’ve forgotten what it was like to really want each other, but now that the spectre of Yanis Argyros has darkened the doorway of Thomas’ classroom, that seems like a terrible mistake. A Greek Tragedy waiting to play itself out. _Hubris_. Danger. One must never forget to propitiate the gods.

James’ hands are warm on the small of Thomas’ back as he rises out of his chair to meet him.

They must hold the spectre at bay. They must make their bodies into an impenetrable keep by pressing them tightly together.

***

The Jolly Hive is living up to its name, buzzing about with a cheerful crowd. The town’s population and commerce seem to be on the upswing. Silver just saw another barge at the dock, unloading more mulberry saplings to take to Wormsloe. Mulberry trees mean silk production, and mass production of anything means slaves, Silver isn’t going to pretend to not recognize that. Flint must recognize that too. Why the _fuck_ did they settle down here?

“Argyros,” says Thomas with a pensive look. _Ahr-yee-rohs_ , he drawls out. Silver has a suspicion that the rolled “R”s were never really Lord Hamilton’s forte. “Argyros, is that with a G?” The way he blinks at Silver is open, disarming. He tries to imagine what this lordling would have looked like twenty years ago, in the flower of his prowess, when he turned young Flint and his entire world upside down.

“With a gamma,” Silver replies and takes a sip of his ale.

Thomas is smiling at him and Silver feels obscenely humored. “Of course,” Thomas says and clinks his cup against Silver’s. “Welcome to the Isle of Hope, Mr. Argyros.”

“Please, you must call me Yanis.”

“And you must call me Thomas.” _I bet you say that to all the boys_ , Silver muses as he gives Thomas his friendliest grin. Trust me, the grin says, I’m entirely too charmed by you. “What brings you here, Yanis? Is it just family business?”

“Mostly,” Silver says, carefully chewing upon the two syllables.

“And do you plan on staying long?”

“That depends,” Silver opens his hands and catches Thomas’ eyes on them. He’s always had the habit of talking with his hands, but only now is he keenly self-conscious of that fact. “I can’t go home, that’s for sure,” he adds unbidden.

“Back to Greece?” Thomas asks.

“Naww,” Silver drawls out as his eyes wander. “Another place. You know,” he says in an attempt to shift the conversation off himself, “I might have a friend in the area. Well, we were friends once, in either case. Was a well-read man. Liked to talk a lot about Odysseus and walking away from the sea. Now recently, years after our paths had parted, I learned he’d settled down right here in Georgia, not so far from the coast after all, on a place many still call an island. And I wondered, why would he do such a thing? He could’ve gone anywhere in the world, ‘cos I have it on good authority he’d had some financial help in his matters. But he’s right here, in Wormsloe territory.” Silver pokes his finger into the wooden table for emphasis.

Thomas is silent for a while, studying him, which makes the tips of Silver’s ears burn. “Perhaps he liked the name,” he says at last.

“What, Wormsloe?”

“ _L'Île d'Espérance_ ,” Thomas smiles. His French pronunciation is much better than his Greek, Silver notes with some bitterness. Thomas sips his ale as his slate-colored eyes look over the rim of his cup and Silver’s never felt more naked before, so he draws his linen coat tighter around his body even though the summer air is heady and warm.

“He was supposed to take an oar and walk inland until he found the first person who mistook that oar for a shovel. For only there would he never be troubled by the sea and finally be able to find some peace.” Silver has recited it from memory but he can’t recall when Flint had told him that story. There were many nights and many stories, but this one he remembers most of all. He had convinced himself over the years that this is what he’d been doing, helping Odysseus walk inland and find peace.

“You’re still talking about Odysseus?” Thomas asks and Silver nods as he takes another swallow of his ale. “But Odysseus never left Ithaka once he came home. And he certainly never found peace.”

Silver shifts in his chair. There’s a definitive twinge where his leg should be. It’s unnerving that it still happens, so many years after their sudden separation.

“Do you know the story of Telegonus?” Thomas asks and Silver shakes his head. “It’s part of the tale of Odysseus that never made it into _The Odyssey_ ,” he begins to explain. “Telegonus was the son of Odysseus by Circe. She was the nymph and sorceress with whom Odysseus had spent a year upon his journey home from Troy. It took him seven more years to reach Ithaka, and I doubt he’d ever given Circe another thought. But out there, on the isle of Aiaia, his son was born, and the boy grew up and became a man, and the man wanted to seek out his father. So he’d set sail from Aiaia with his head full of dreams of finding the man from his mother’s stories, a great hero of the Trojan war, a wise and powerful king.”

“What did he find when he finally came to Ithaka?” Silver asks. Thomas would continue his tale regardless, but Silver is very well aware of the rules of narrative. He knows exactly when the script calls for an interjection to show interest.

“What he found in Ithaka was an old and gnarled man, beset by paranoia, troubled by unfulfilled ambitions. A man who took one look at a young warrior and thought him a thief and a brigand.”

“Sounds like it would have been better for Telegonus to have stayed on Aiaia,” Silver says with a sullen smirk.

“For him and Odysseus both. Because when Odysseus had seen the man he’d thought to be his enemy, he attacked him without so much as an introduction, and in the struggle was slain by Telegonus’ spear.”

“Killed by the son he did not know he’d sired,” Silver says as he eyes the dregs of his drink. He’s going to need another. “What happened to Penelope?” he asks. The faithful wife who waited for her husband’s return for twenty years.

“Telegonus took her to his mother’s house on Aiaia where eventually he married her.”

Silver looks away and laughs. “Now, Thomas, what a way to bury the lead! I did not realize you’d been telling me a love story this entire time.”

“I don’t think that is the moral of the story.”

“And what do you think is the moral of the story, then?”

“I suppose the moral of the story,” Thomas says with a deep sigh, “is that we cannot fight Fate.”

***

The truth is, Telegonus already had his chance to kill Odysseus. And he didn’t take it, choosing to throw his ‘father’ into Tartarus instead. Yanis Argyros isn’t fooling anyone and Thomas is a little bit offended that he thinks he is. Only he isn’t entirely sure that Yanis is the Telegonus of the story, and not Circe herself. Perhaps he is some sort of twisted combination of both.

And if he has truly come to Georgia to take James from him, is it so wrong to allow himself to wonder if he can have something in exchange? Do you make a deal with the gods to trade green eyes for blue? He is handsome in a way that is simultaneously roguish and cherubic, with his round face and graying curls, and crow’s feet that crinkle when he cracks one of his genuine smiles but stay deep and firm when his grin is nothing but teeth. In another version of the myth, perhaps he’s Scylla, perhaps he’s Charybdis. And Thomas himself, well, he’s certainly no Penelope.

“I had a strange thought,” he says as he lays next to James’ naked body.

“I’m getting quite too old for your strange thoughts,” James chuckles and places an open mouthed kiss upon Thomas’ shoulder. “What’s gotten into you lately, huh? You're suddenly rather insatiable.”

“Are you actually complaining? I would have thought you’d be only too happy to let off some of that pent up energy, hm?”

James chuckles and slides his body easily to slot alongside Thomas’, one glorious thigh thrown across his lap. “Tell me your strangest thoughts, love,” he purrs.

“It isn’t like that,” Thomas says, avoiding his eyes. “I was thinking of Long John Silver.”

James stirs. “Really? As you were fucking me?”

“It’s just,” Thomas shifts to accommodate the discomfort growing inside him. James’ arm across his chest feels incredibly tight and accusing. “Well, you never actually told me very much about him. I don’t even know what he looked like. I’ve always pictured this huge, gnarled pirate, with a big scar across his face and missing front teeth.”

“He was missing a leg,” James says. “I don’t remember him visibly missing any teeth.”

Missing a leg, Thomas thinks. What a silly way of putting it. It wasn’t as if he’d misplaced it. James himself had told him enough to know that the leg was taken from him, in a moment of violence that had aligned his allegiances, and altered the path of their partnership forever.

“And for the rest of it? Was he a brute? An ugly mongrel?” Or was he beautiful like an angel, Thomas thinks. A fallen angel, perhaps. An angel who could really use a barber.

“No more than I, I suppose,” James sighs against Thomas’ neck. “Why are you asking me about him? It was all such a lifetime ago.”

But time means nothing to a broken heart. “I hadn’t seen you in over ten years either, and loved you all the more when we were reunited. Loved you in spite of the things you’ve done, even loved you _because_ of them.”

“He betrayed me but he brought me to you. As for the rest, he was a cipher, a man without a past, without a future. I never really knew him after all, only the things he chose to show me.”

“He must have loved you, once.”

“Thomas,” James is laughing softly against his hair. “Do not let your own affection for me bias you in your thoughts. Not everyone who meets me, loves me.” His lips are warm against Thomas’ earlobe, and Thomas wants so much to believe everything he says. Except James isn’t really saying anything at all. “Besides, Captain Flint wasn’t exactly easy to love.”

“No, I don’t imagine he was,” Thomas agrees. _Which is why he must have loved you so much more_ , he thinks.

***

Silver is a fool for thinking he could hide out in a small town like Wormsloe and not run into Flint. He’s ferreted out where his - where _their_ \- cottage is, in a private corner of town, hidden away from prying eyes by a living fence that bloomed wildly in the Georgia heat. He knows to avoid the bookshop because his young informats tell him Mr. Barlow will frequent it a least once a week (and there’s a thing that doesn’t surprise Silver in the least: Flint and his consistent love of books). As for the rest of his time, who knows how Flint spends it behind the greenery surrounding his cottage. He certainly doesn’t _work_ for a living anymore, that much is clear.

The first time Madi had told him what had happened, he could not help but laugh. The letter had come addressed to the Governor of Nassau. Inside it was another letter addressed to Eme. It was Eme who had gotten word to Madi.

“He is free,” she had said, no need to specify who the _he_ was. There was only ever one _he_ between the two of them.

“Did he set the plantation on fire and slaughter every inhabitant?” Silver had asked her as he looked out towards the indefinite horizon. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the billowing smoke from the Oglethorpe plantation.

“He had convinced Oglethorpe that he was much more of a liability locked up than free. Did he really want to subject himself to the risk of a pirate attack upon his land, should someone have half a mind to set Captain Flint free. Oglethorpe weighed his options and let them both go.”

That was when Silver had laughed. Trust fucking Flint to talk himself out of confinement, without even lifting a finger in violence. He wondered whether it had been Hamilton’s idea, not that he didn’t know Flint to be perfectly capable of it. After all, he had talked all of _them_ out of confinement once, and into a war. And all because Silver, oh irony of ironies, told him he wanted him to live.

“Is he coming back?” Silver had asked, his heart in his throat.

“No,” was all Madi had said at the time. A few months later, he’d found out Madi had been expecting, and he forced himself to put Flint out of his thoughts for good.

In any event, Silver should have been expecting to run into Flint sooner or later, he just wasn’t expecting to see him walking right up to the schoolhouse at the same time he’d been rounding the corner about to do so himself. And now Silver is frozen in his tracks as he sees him on the front porch, close to Thomas but not quite touching, the affection between the two of them genuine and so open that it makes Silver afraid for them more than he is afraid for himself. But then Thomas’ eye catches him over Flint’s shoulder and there - there’s fear in it too. So, Silver presses his crutch into the pebbled road and pivots away, before Flint can turn around and spot him as well.

At fifty paces away and ten years later, Flint is still the most beautiful sight Silver has ever seen. And Silver has seen Madi pregnant with their child, so that’s saying quite a bit.

***

Thomas is ashamed. Usually he would know better, but in this particular case he can find no better word to describe his inner state. He’s ashamed. He should not be skulking around local inns seeking to meet a man who might have come to the Isle of Hope to destroy his life. If there is a prophecy at work here, he should let Fate decide, and not seek to unravel the mystery for himself.

He finds the man on the veranda, surrounded by several boys he recognizes as his own students. He’s eating an apple and speaking with his mouth full, doubtlessly setting a terrible example to this already beleaguered by poor manners crowd.

“So I couldn’t let my friend drown now, could I?” says Yanis and several young heads shake from side to side in a definitive ‘nooooo’. “I jumped into the sea and I tied a rope around his middle and I tugged on it, to let my crewmen know it was safe to tug us back aboard.” The kids’ faces radiate awe and delight. “But wouldn’t you know it, just as they’re pulling us out of the sea, one of the circling sharks just _jumps_ high into the air!” Thomas himself jumps with the momentum of the tale. “Just bloody leaps like a bird, I tell you, and then CRUNCH! Bites off my leg, right down to the knee. You all wanna see my stump? You can still see his teeth marks.”

“Woah!”

“No way!”

“Yeah!”

A chorus of boyish voices explodes around them. Thomas clears his throat and a moanlike susurrus trickles like a current through the young crowd.

“I believe Mr. Argyros has entertained you enough, don’t you think?”

Yanis takes a bite of the apple and grins at Thomas as he chews. “I don’t mind, teach. It’s good to have impact on impressionable young minds, don’t you agree?”

“You’re good with them,” Thomas nods towards the skampering boys. He sits down in one of the empty chairs next to Yanis and lets his gaze take in the summer blooms of the garden. “You have kids of your own back home?”

“Aye,” Yanis says, then quickly adds, “No. Not... not anymore.” He chews on his mustache, a twitch evident just below his left eye. “I did, but…”

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas says quickly. A part of him knows he should look away, that what he’s witnessing is a private misery, one he hasn’t been invited to share.

“A fever took ‘im,” Yanis murmurs into his beard. “I still wonder sometimes if there was anything I could’ve done to save him. I would’ve done anything. _Anything_.”

Thomas has no doubt that it is true. “Is that why you left?” he asks carefully.

“There was so much already standing between his mother and I,” Yanis says as he picks at his thumb. “It was just the last thing that we couldn’t let stand. Just this…” He spreads his large hands and Thomas feels drawn into the invisible vortex between them. Charybdis. “Just this fucking void between us, nothing could fill it.”

Of all the lies Yanis has told since he’s come to the Isle of Hope, Thomas doesn’t doubt that this one time he’s told him the truth. He reaches out and takes one of Argyros’ hands into his own. It’s only for a few seconds, but he carries the touch of those rough fingers back with him to their cottage and then he sets it down against the back of James’ neck.

And still, he cannot bring himself to say a word.

***

Silver is thankful Thomas hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked for more details. Hadn’t asked for his boy’s name. Silver can’t think of it without sobbing. A silent, full body sob is all that comes out of him, with his mouth open in eternal terror. A pain so overwhelming that it robs him even of his voice.

He knows these things happen. Children get sick, children die, children die for all kinds of reasons. It was a small miracle he had survived childhood himself. But his son had been his one chance to be the father he never had. His last chance to right his wrongs. His son’s love for him, unlike Madi’s, had been unconditional. Until the very end, when he clenched his little hand in his, and images of Muldoon drowning came flooding like that storm into his mind, his son had trusted him to keep him safe, to keep the hounds at the door. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t… he couldn’t.

When Silver cries it is without sound. He’s learned that way of crying a long time ago and it has served him well.

Once upon a time, Silver had been shedding silent tears in the captain’s cabin aboard the _Walrus_. When Madi was temporarily dead. When another cloud had covered up the sun. Flint had placed his hand upon his shoulder and the weight of it felt so right that all Silver wanted was to bury himself under the weight of him, never to rise again.

Once upon a time, he let Captain Flint pin him down with his entire weight and he had opened his mouth and let his captain’s tongue in. Once upon a time, he loved Flint so much that the very thought of losing him was akin to never feeling the touch of sunlight upon his face again.

Silver opens his mouth and his lips tremble.

Thomas Hamilton is a good man and he had touched Silver’s hand and for a moment Silver thought he too might still be a good man.

If he was truly a good man, he would leave the Isle of Hope. But he can’t. He can’t. He opens his mouth and only one word comes out, like a death rattle.

 _James_.

***

James is at the kitchen table, scribbling something in his neat cursive. Thomas smiles thinking that there are certain aspects of learned decorum that his beloved will never shake, like proper penmanship, or rising when a woman enters the room. It makes his heart swell in his chest with an overabundance of love.

“Will you go into town today?” James asks.

“Of course. You need me to drop off something by the bookseller's?” Thomas sips his tea and tries not to think too much about those notes slipped into the books.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

It’s only a small drop that they can take out of the overflowing sea of misery. But there’s no reason not to save one life just because you can’t save them all. There is no pain except that our desire makes it so. He must have read something like that in _Meditations_ years ago. It is always our desires that make life so uncomfortable. _If wishes were fishes we’d all swim in riches._ That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t even rhyme.

“Be careful,” James says, slipping a book into Thomas’ hand.

“I’m not the one who should be careful,” Thomas replies and his lips brush gently against James’.

***

Word in town is there are some escaped slaves on the loose from the Wormsloe plantation. Or possibly just one slave. It’s difficult for Silver to make out the details since he doesn’t want to make his distaste for the discussion fully known. His ears are pointed in every direction simultaneously and his mustache bristles at the smallest whiff of useful information. It doesn’t exactly sound like this is the kind of place a slave can escape without assistance, surrounded as they are on all sides by water. Whoever these unfortunate souls are, they must still be trapped somewhere on the Isle of Hope. It’s only a matter of time until they’re recaptured.

The thought of Flint living in such a place makes Silver’s gall rise up again. How _could_ he? Wasn’t this just as bad as serving England? Living off the wealth of the land that is toiled by slave-labor? Then again, he shouldn’t talk. He’s the one who stripped Flint of his war, his power, he’s the one who put him in a cage and left him there to rot. Even if that cage could never hold him.

A flash of white hair and broad shoulders that have become familiar to Silver catches his eye. It’s Thomas on his way to the school house, no doubt. Except it’s Sunday and school is not in session. Silver doesn’t suppose that Thomas is one for going to church, so he rises from his seat and throws a half crown onto the table to cover his drink. There is no way for him to appear inconspicuous or blend into the background, especially in a settlement this size, but Silver still places his tricorn firmly over his brow and heads out the door.

Even at his most fit, there is no way Silver could’ve kept up with a man with legs as long as Thomas Hamilton, so there’s no point in trying now. Still, it isn’t like the town is very big, and where Silver can’t keep up with his one good leg, he can still follow Thomas with his eyes from a good distance. He’s headed for the bookseller’s, which in itself wouldn’t be particularly noteworthy, except that most people go into bookshops to purchase books. Thomas Hamilton has walked in with a book and has walked out empty-handed except for the walking cane he was carrying, no more than a minute later.

Perhaps the bookstore also doubles as a library, Silver wonders as he continues his stroll down Main Street. And Thomas is now window-shopping, or rather loitering by the window of a millinery shop right next to the bookseller’s. Which in itself would also not be particularly noteworthy, except that his attention seems to be everywhere _but_ on the hats in the window. Silver takes a pause himself, leaning against a wooden beam of the apothecary stand. Thomas is clearly waiting for something or someone, but what?

The door of the bookshop opens again and a woman comes out holding a leather-bound volume in her hand. Thomas pivots on his heels. Everything about his movements is decisive and expeditious. Before Silver has a chance to glean what he’s seeing, the book has transferred hands, and Thomas has it tucked under his armpit as he’s crossing Main Street, heading in the opposite direction from where he came. Which is to say right into Silver.

“Morning, teach,” Silver says with a touch of his fingers to his forelock. Thomas looks at him as if he’d seen a ghost, all blood draining from his face. His armpit flexes instinctively around the arcane tome. “In a bit of hurry today?”

“Mr. Argyros,” Thomas tips his own hat. “Still in town, I see.”

“Haven’t budged.” Silver falls into step next to Thomas, noting with gratitude that the other man has adjusted his stride to allow him to do so.

“Have you given more thought to paying a visit to this friend of yours?”

Silver looks up from under the wide brim of his tricorn. “My friend, you say?”

“Odysseus,” Thomas replies with a benevolent smile. “It appeared to me last time we spoke that you were going through… forgive me… a difficult time and, well, we could all use a friend in a difficult time.”

“I’m all right,” Silver lies.

“You’re grieving.”

Only one other man had dared before to try and tell Silver how he felt, what he thought. And that one man is probably still keeping _this_ man’s bed warm, so that too makes bile rise up in Silver’s throat.

“What would you know about grief, teach? Ever lost a child?”

That isn't kind, but at the moment Silver doesn't care.

“No,” Thomas says softly. “But I have lost a wife.”

Mrs. Barlow, of course. Silver remembers the loss of her quite well himself. Flint had mourned her while he had mourned the loss of his own leg. Lives seem to be measured by the size of the void their departures leave. Is there a Miranda-shaped void inside Thomas as well, Silver wonders.

“I don’t think my friend wants to see me,” Silver says at last. “It’s been a long time and I’m sure he doesn’t need a reminder of things better left forgotten.”

“Some things can never be forgotten,” Thomas says and his arm flexes again around the book. “Pardon me, my friend, but this is where I must leave you.” His hand squeezes tightly over Silver’s shoulder. This is the second time Thomas has touched him, each time leaving Silver’s head spinning and his ribcage feeling slightly bereft. “But if I could extend an invitation for you to come by for tea to the house I share with my cousin…”

“Your cousin?”

“My cousin.” Thomas is smiling and Silver feels like an idiot. “Would you like to meet my cousin, Yanis?”

“I appreciate the invitation, Thomas,” he replies as politely as he can muster. “I’ll give it a long think.”

“I wouldn’t think about it too long. _Carpe diem_ , Mr. Argyros.”

“I’ll _carpe_ first chance I get, teach.”

***

Thomas should absolutely not have been surprised that his phantom from the deep had followed him to the rendezvous point and yet he is. Moreover, he’s damn furious, as he grabs for the cane which has a blade secreted away inside it.

“Don’t come any closer!” Thomas says, pointing the cane at Argyros, blade still sheathed inside.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Argyros’ eyes are fixed on the figure that Thomas’ form is trying to hide, a slip of a slavegirl, trembling in the clothes he had just brought for her to put on. “Of all the fucking people in this town, I wouldn’t have expected _you_ to play slave-catcher!”

“Slave-catcher?” Thomas lowers his cane. “Is that what you really think is going on here?”

“You tell me what’s going on here!”

“I need to get this woman to our house, from whence James will transport her tonight in his boat that lies waiting in the marina. This time tomorrow, she’ll be well on her way to Maroon Island!”

“Maroon Island?”

“Where I imagine your wife will be present to greet her, yes? Mr. Yanis Argyros?”

Silver, for there is really no more reason to pretend Thomas doesn’t know who he is anymore, is struck dumb. It is a shockingly good look on him.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t figure out who you are?” Thomas exclaims. “You weren’t even dissembling very hard, were you? Yanis Argyros/John Silver? I am a son of an Earl, you might recall, many of us are still forced to learn Greek as part of our early education.”

Silver’s mouth is open, as if a serpent is liable to crawl out of it, it gapes in mute horror. “Madi… is working with Flint?”

“He doesn’t go by that name anymore.”

There’s a commotion on Main Street and Silver quickly gestures for them to be on their way. “Go, get her out of here!” Thomas places his hand on the girl’s thin arm and guides her behind the building of a barn, towards a path that will cut across the wood, until it leads them to the backdoor of their cottage. He can only surmise by the sounds reaching his ears that Silver has made a great spectacle of himself to cause a disturbance, and his heart throbs in gratitude.

***

_Please, give me a chance to explain._

That’s all Silver had the courage to write before he slipped the note into young Jim Hawkins’ pocket with an extra halfpence for his troubles. He feels like a fool and he knows that he is one, and a coward too, because the note should have been sent to the cottage and addressed to ‘Mr. Barlow.’ And if anyone should be explaining anything perhaps it’s Flint, because he’s the one who’s been running some kind of underground slave smuggling operation with his fucking _wife_. Or perhaps it’s Madi, who’s slept at his side all these years while saying nothing at all about any of this.

Oh, he knew the fragile trust between them had been broken. He’s always known better than to ask. As long as Featherstone was Governor at Nassau, it was all too easy to turn a blind eye to. Silver was never living under the misconception that Madi and her people weren’t in constant and blatant violation of the treaty. He would never blame her for _that_. But she had been in touch with _him_ , she had corresponded with _him_. While Silver had worked so diligently to erase Flint from his thoughts… In vain.

He wonders if they've ever spoken of their lives during that correspondence. He wonders if Flint _knows_.

Thomas arrives just as the sky begins to pinken with the sunset. Silver is out on the veranda again, ears full of the sound of screaming birds and chirping insects, his good leg stretched across the wooden parapet as he rocks his chair back.

“Will you sit?” Silver asks and Thomas sits in the chair next to him, his hat precariously balanced on one knee. “How did it go?” Silver whispers.

“Well,” Thomas replies.

“Good,” says Silver.

It does feel good, no longer having to carry the lie between them.

“I guess Odysseus never settled down at all,” Silver muses.

“I told you as much when you first came here,” Thomas points out. “Now, what do you intend to do?”

“You don’t want an explanation from me?”

“I never did,” Thomas says. Silver can feel his gaze upon his face, it makes the back of his collar flush with heat. “I assumed you had approached me out of some misguided intent to feel your way back into his life indirectly or not at all. But understanding the sordid history between the two of you, I can hardly blame you for not walking up to our front door and simply knocking.” Thomas sighs and Silver gathers the courage to look over at him. He looks tired and Silver finds himself wanting to reach out and hold his hand.

“Misguided intent,” Silver repeats. “I deserve that.”

“I have not told him you were here,” Thomas says so quietly that Silver must lean over to properly hear him. “If you want to leave without speaking with him, you may still do so. I only ask that if you leave, you leave James unscathed.”

“Why haven’t you told him?” asks Silver.

“At first, I told myself I was protecting him. From you, from…this. I was waiting to see what you would do. Then, it became more complicated than that.” Silver waits for the rest, he can sense that Thomas has a lot to still say on the subject, and he deserves to have his say. “The truth is,” Thomas continues with a sigh, “I found myself enjoying your company and it became a secret I kept for myself.” He looks over at Silver and his smile is as warm as the fading rays of the sun. “I knew that once I told him you were here, it would precipitate the inevitable. Whatever it was. And I wasn’t ready to let either one of you go yet.”

“Thomas…”

But Thomas interrupts him. “Tell me you did this out of a desperate love! Not out of some dark desire to have yourself revenged upon him.”

“What would I do to have myself revenged upon him?” Silver asks and Thomas’ eyes are dark now, glowing like embers as he fixes his gaze upon Silver’s mouth.

“Ask me to come upstairs,” Thomas says.

Silver licks his lips. “I need you to know that I came here because I am still in love with him.”

“I know,” Thomas says.

“Thomas,” Silver’s voice drops as he stops rocking his chair. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me upstairs?”

***

The room that Silver has rented upstairs is small and smells mildly of mildew, by far not the finest at the inn, which makes Thomas want to have a few words with the proprietor, but that is an ordeal for another day. Silver props his crutch against the wall and lets his body sink down to the old, creaking mattress. He’s looking at Thomas with a mix of fear and awe and it makes Thomas want to wrap himself around him with all his limbs. He wonders if this was the same look he had given James the first time they were together. He tries to imagine what Silver would’ve looked like back then, his brow more smooth, his hair more lustrous, his eyes… there wasn’t an actual possibility those eyes were ever more luminous than they were at that moment.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” Silver asks.

Rather than reply, Thomas lets his hands cup his jaw, his fingers dig into the loose, thick tendrils of his hair, his thumbs draw down the long sinews of his neck. “I think I understand why he loved you,” Thomas whispers.

“I think you’re only starting to understand why he might have desired me,” Silver corrects and Thomas places an index finger against his lips, hushing him.

 _There was a moment_ , James once told him, _when I thought there was no man closer in the world to me than he_. How terrible it must have been when that moment fled!

Thomas sits down onto the cot, his fingers tighten in the thicket of hair at the nape of Silver’s neck, and he tugs. When their lips meet, it is with a quiet hunger, two men remembering what it was like once to truly savor the world. Thomas has kissed many mouths, more even than he would have at some point admitted to James. Now those numbers hold no meaning to either of them. But this - the way John Silver opens his lips and sucks down his tongue - this is memorable for too many reasons to enumerate and Thomas moans into the kiss, chasing the hint of sweetness that blooms there, right under the surface of hunger, of desperation.

Silver’s body proudly bears the signs of his disability. Thomas draws his hands over the thickly chorded muscles of his chest and shoulders, more pronounced on the left, where he holds his crutch. He notes the way the spine curves to the side from muscular compensation. He hates that he sees these things, that the years of suffering must be written so clearly across the canvas of Silver’s body. His own scars are much easier to hide, but he’s willing to let Silver see them too. He needs Silver to know they may not always have been equal in society’s eyes, but in _this_ they are equal. And if they can have a moment of _this_ , perhaps they can find a way to have James too. Equally.

“I’m not as fragile as I look, my Lord,” Silver says as his nails catch the skin of Thomas’ lower back.

“I was thinking quite the opposite,” Thomas admits and latches his mouth to the sinews of Silver’s swanlike neck.

Things go easily after that, or rather Silver goes easily. Once he’s on his back, spread out before Thomas like a glorious gift, thighs spread out like the bounty of the magic carpet, Thomas cannot remember what doubts he may have ever harbored. Silver is beautiful. Each one of his breathy gasps as Thomas enters him is beautiful, the way sweat pools in the hollow of his throat is beautiful, his nails digging into Thomas’ ribs, into the flesh of his arse are beautiful, and so are the scratches they leave behind.

“You’re beautiful!” Thomas breathes into Silver’s open mouth.

“You sound surprised,” Silver gasps, his eyes opening and fixing Thomas with an amused look.

“I am,” Thomas admits.

He never wanted to imagine Silver this beautiful, but now that he is deeply seated inside him, now that his own body has rediscovered something akin to a youthful fervor once more, he couldn’t be happier for James. He got to have _this_. Even if it was only for a moment in time.

Afterwards, lying entwined in a heap of limbs, Thomas inhales the scent of their commingled bodies, contentment spreading to the very corners of his soul. Silver’s heartbeat echoes his own, as if their pulses have reached their own unspoken accord. Everything is too quiet and too loud all at once. His palms tingle, and he presses his arms tighter around Silver’s perspiration-soaked form.

“What was his name?” Thomas asks in a shaky voice. “Your son?”

Silver shivers, burrows deeper into Thomas’ embrace, for which he’s grateful because he expected Silver to draw away at his prying.

There’s a sound that almost resembles a whimper, and then Silver’s lips move against the flushed skin of Thomas’ neck. “James,” he says. “We named him James. We called him Jamie.”

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Thomas says, pressing his lips against Silver’s hairline. “I’m so sorry, John.”

It isn’t fair, Thomas thinks, that he should return from the dead when Silver’s boy never would. When Miranda never would. To mourn someone is to regret every conversation you’ll never have with them. To feel them so vividly yet to be unable to reach across the veil to touch them ever again. Finally, to forget a little bit with each passing year, only to hate oneself for all the precious details forgotten.

 _Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature’s delight._ That’s from the _Meditations_ , isn’t it? It isn’t comforting to know how much delight they all bring to Nature. That Nature delights in their loss.

“I wanted to see him again,” Silver says. “At least I can still see _him_ again. Even if only once?”

***

“I’m starting to understand why he loved you, too,” Silver says.

Thomas is fully attired in his own clothes again and he hovers above his bed, one hand propped against the cane that Silver has learned is much more than meets the eye. Just like its owner.

This wasn’t at all what he had anticipated when he came to the Isle of Hope.

“I hope you haven’t made dinner plans for tomorrow,” Thomas says as he adjusts his hat with a flourish.

“If I could sum you up in one word?”

“Yes?”

“Relentless,” Silver says and grins up at Thomas with all his teeth.

***

The night is pregnant with anticipation and the hum of cicadas. Thomas sips his wine and pretends to read, while James softly pokes at the simmering meat on the stovetop. The sight of him in the kitchen is masterful, and Thomas tries to imagine for the thousandth time what he might have been like at the helm of his ship, the steady hand and the discerning gaze, the composure of a man not to be fucked with.

“Food’s ready,” James announces as he banks down the flames.

“Do you remember,” Thomas says carefully as he sets down his book, “how we once promised to tell one another if ever we found ourselves desiring something else?” James turns. “Someone else?” Thomas adds.

James is mulling his next words over. “I do,” he says slowly. “But I guess I had assumed that such frivolities were things we left behind years ago.” The tension in his shoulders is visible from where Thomas sits. “Was I wrong?”

“Until very recently, I would have said you were absolutely right. Except there was one thing I had not been counting on.”

“What’s that?” James asks, his jaw still set against the unknown.

“I had not counted on meeting someone who would be equally desirable to you.”

“Oh?” That gets a reluctant smile out of James. “And you know me so well, do you, that you can just make that call for us both?”

“I very much hope so.”

Thomas’ ears are trained on the sounds of the night. A soft, niggling doubt scratches at the back of his brain. A few days ago, he was terrified to hear the sound of that drag-stomp outside their door. And now, a different fear grows inside him. _What if he doesn’t come?_

“Thomas, what have you done?”

_He must come._

“Just promise me that you will not do anything rash,” he begs. “You must believe that I would not have allowed this if I did not think that it would be to our mutual benefit.”

“ _Thomas_.”

The rapping on the door is decisive, like a tolling bell.

“I’ll get it!” Thomas shoots up from his chair.

“Not till you tell me what’s going on,” James hisses, his hand gripping Thomas’ wrist. “Who stands outside that door?”

“Yanis Argyros,” Thomas says and lets his hand slip from James’ grip.

“Yanis Argyros?” James’ brow is furrowed, a hundred different emotions skittering across his features like an anthill. “What a ridiculous name for a man,” James says.

“He’s not a man,” Thomas says as he steps towards the door. “He’s a ghost.”

***

At ten paces and ten years later, Flint is still the most beautiful sight Silver’s ever seen.

“Hello, Captain.”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” Flint exclaims. Ten paces become five, then one. “Jesus,” he whispers. “ _Fuck_ ,” he adds. Silver swallows hard, and then Flint’s arms are around him and he drops his crutch to the floor because he knows with every fiber of his being that these arms are strong enough to hold him.

***

The nights are getting longer as the days shorten and a cool breeze can be felt wandering in from the coast. One can already sense the first whiff of winter in the air, the light falls like a veil across the skies, more pale and more dim. It never snows in Georgia, but the chill is still palpable. Thomas buttons up his coat collar as he walks, his cane bouncing merrily against the newly paved stones of Main Street. He’s in a particularly good mood because _The Odyssey_ has proven a veritable balm to soothe the rowdy souls of his students. He was never very good at whistling, but he hums a soft tune as he heads towards the sign of the bookseller’s.

“Good evening, shopkeep!” he hollers.

“Good evening, my Lord,” comes the saucy reply.

Thomas leans quickly over the counter to press his lips against Silver’s whilst they’re alone. “You mustn’t call me that, pet,” he mutters against Silver’s smile. “Not out in public, in either case.”

“How goes the molding of young, impressionable minds?” Silver asks as he leans against the counter, his fingers barely grazing the back of Thomas’ hand. A pile of books is stacked neatly on his right, a new-looking globe graces his left.

“Not entirely hopeless!” Thomas proclaims with cheer. “And how goes the incredibly lucrative bookselling business? Did anything new arrive that um… might be of interest to Mr. Barlow?”

“Not today,” Silver replies with a lazy and demonstrative stretch. “But I have it on good authority there will be a shipment in the coming days.”

Their hands brush, and if Thomas lets his fingers linger a little too long against those expansive palms, well, a man can’t be blamed for having his little fixations.

“We’ll see you at home,” he whispers before heading for the door.

Maybe the myths were wrong, he muses. Maybe there was another version of the story where Odysseus was allowed to be happy in Ithaka. Maybe, just maybe, if you kept your hubris in check (of course), the gods were sometimes kind.

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I get a nice comment, my physical health improves by 2% and that ain't no joke.


End file.
